


Wait for it

by Agf



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Beware: descriptions of murdered bodies, But then what's new?, C. C. is trying, Gen, Interrogation, M/M, No gory detail though, Private detective C. C. Tinsley, Ricky is being an asshole, Serial Killer Ricky Goldsworth, Threats, highly questionable knowledge of police procedure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-02-28 05:13:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18749716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agf/pseuds/Agf
Summary: "I have you bang to rights and you know it. Just admit it," C. C. repeated for what could only have been the fourth time, but which felt like the hundredth."Your 'evidence' is purely circumstantial. You can't pin a thing on me," Ricky said, "Which makes sense, seeing as I'm innocent."Then he winked.Private Investigator C. C. Tinsley is certain that Ricky Goldsworth is the Sunset Killer. Ricky Goldsworth is certain that spending 24 hours messing with the PI is going to be a lot of fun.





	Wait for it

The worst thing, the absolute _worst_ thing about entering hour eight of the interrogation, wasn't the slowly creeping claustrophobia. It wasn't the fact that Tinsley had had to practically beg to be the one to conduct the interview, or the fact that he probably owed the Chief a few hours unpaid work for letting him 'play like a real cop'. 

It wasn't the tiredness itching behind his eyes. The pressure to deliver results, prove himself. Not even the obnoxiously loud ticking of the clock in the corner. It wasn't the patently uncomfortable seat that had turned his ass numb thirty minutes in. 

No - it wasn't any of that. The worst thing was that Ricky had the audacity to be having a _good time_. 

"I have you bang to rights and you know it. Just admit it," C. C. repeated for what could only have been the fourth time, but which felt like the hundredth. 

He might as well have been speaking to the mirror, for all the good it did. 

"Your 'evidence' is purely circumstantial. You can't pin a thing on me," Ricky said, "Which makes sense, seeing as I'm innocent." 

Then he winked. 

C. C. took a deep breath, held it, and let it out in a slow rush. His hand twitched on top of his folder. Inside, all of his research on the Sunset Killer. The descriptions from the neighbours that ranged from 'a well-dressed man with dark hair' to 'a vagrant smoking an expensive cigar'; the description of the case he carried, undoubtedly filled with the implements of his trade; the details of the bodies, artfully torn apart, all positioned facing their windows, left there in time to watch the sun dip low in the sky; the forensics reports that revealed nothing. Then, copies of Goldsworth's movements - ticket stubs that put him in the neighbourhoods of each murder, sightings of him in nearby Casinos and drinking alone in bars. _Dry-cleaning receipts_ , for God's sake. 

Reams of information. Tinsley had read through the folder so many times he'd bent up the pages. 

He knew exactly how it went. Goldsworth would dress for the occasion, donning whatever outfit would get his victim to open their front door. Undoubtedly there'd be a touch of expense to whatever he chose - hence the cigars, and the fancy watch he'd seen himself. Once inside, he'd schmooze them, overpower them, then use the tools in his briefcase to kill them slowly. 

No one ever reported hearing screams. C. C. wasn't sure he wanted to find out why that was. 

No, the first anyone knew of it, they'd see their neighbour staring, glassy-eyed, out at the sunset. Most thought nothing of it. Until they were still there the next morning, in the same position, still staring. 

Dead.

Across the metal table, Ricky hummed a jaunty jazz tune. 

Tinsley's eyes hurt, his clothes were dirty and his hair was starting to stick straight up. He needed to go home, wash, regroup. Come back fighting. He shifted in his seat. 

"How many hours left now?" Ricky asked mildly, picking at his fingernails. He didn't seem hampered by the cuffs that kept his wrists fixed to the table. But then, he didn't seem hampered by anything at all, really. It was as if his arrest was a minor inconvenience in an otherwise perfectly pleasant life. 

But that was the reason C. C. couldn't leave. He couldn't spend time going back to his dingy apartment for something as trivial as a change of clothes. They couldn't keep Ricky here forever without charging him. And the evidence was... 

It was circumstantial. 

"Sixteen," C. C. replied. 

Ricky nodded. He leaned back in his seat, far as the cuffs would allow, and settled down with all the ease of a man waiting to be called in at the barbers. 

Not that he needed grooming. Goldsworth was primped and preened to within an inch of his life. His hair was as perfectly coiffed now as it had been eight hours ago, and there wasn't a single wrinkle in his perfectly tailored suit. Like the arrest hadn't happened at all. 

If C. C. couldn't feel a bruise forming on the top of his right foot, he might have let himself be convinced that Ricky had just wandered into the precinct an hour ago, and offered himself up for questioning just for the hell of it. Just to be obliging, to be helpful...

That wasn't how it had gone down at all. 

How it had happened was this: Goldsworth, following the pattern of movement Tinsley had painstaking mapped out, having two drinks in a dark bar while Tinsley sat outside in his car and made notes on who walked in, and who walked back out again. The shifty guy who'd gone inside with a briefcase, and come out empty-handed. Then, Goldsworth stepping out in a different jacket, briefcase in hand. 

Tinsley slamming him up against a wall, braced for a fight, to feel the point of a knife. 

Nothing. 

"What the fuck, C. C.?" Ricky hissed. He dropped the briefcase. 

Tinsley wrestled his arms behind his back and slapped cuffs on him before Ricky could change his mind about playing the surprised civilian-who-just-happened-to-know-his-name role. Then he let go of the smaller man, and Ricky turned around to face him. 

"Want to explain what the hell is happening here?" he asked. 

He sounded so affronted, so genuinely confused, that C. C. almost apologised. "I- I'm arresting you," he said. 

"Arresting me?" Ricky repeated. He seemed caught between amusement and something else, something darker. Irritation, but lit with a more forceful feeling. Tinsley got the distinct impression that he had _disappointed_ the shorter man. "What are you arresting me for, exactly?" Ricky asked. 

The prompt set C. C. going again, like a prod to stalled clockwork, and he jumped into action. "I'm arresting you on suspicion of six... no, seven counts of murder," he said. 

"Murder?" Ricky repeated. His voice was pitch-perfect, scandalised, but a look over at his face revealed he was grinning. 

Ice crawled the length of Tinsley's spine. 

He convinced Goldsworth to get into his car - not that it was difficult. Ricky accepted the ride like he hadn't planned to be anywhere else. He folded himself gracefully into the front seat of Tinsley's beat-up old car, but not before stamping, very deliberately, on the private investigator's foot. 

"Woops," Ricky said airily as Tinsley yelped, and allowed him to shut the door. 

***

Sixteen hours to go. Eventually, one of the more junior officers brought them food. The first lot they were offered was served on plates, with metal cutlery. C. C. lost his temper. 

"Do you know what that man can _do_ with something like that?" he seethed, gesturing at the blunt knife. 

"Allegedly," Ricky muttered, quietly enough only Tinsley could hear him. 

The officer looked suitably chagrined, but only until he caught Ricky's eye, behind C. C., at which point he squared his shoulders. 

"Boss says your interview time is running out," he said, and nodded reassuringly at Ricky, as if _C. C._ was the unhinged one in that room. 

"Thank you," Ricky replied, voice all sweetness, "And thank you for the offer, but I'm not hungry. I'll eat when I get home." He glanced up at the clock, then back to Tinsley, smiling again. "I can wait." 

***

The briefcase was full of detective novels. A new set, clearly unopened, their spines unbent. They must have been expensive, beautifully bound in cloth covers with golden inlay spelling out the titles. 

_Death visits an old friend._

_The man with two faces._

_One knife in the hand, two in the bush._

_Careful, Darling._

"What are these?" C. C. had demanded once they'd worked the lock of the briefcase open. (It had taken too long, wasting precious time he didn't have.)

He slammed a pile of the books onto the table in front of Ricky, who only offered them a cursory glance. 

"Books," he replied. 

"I know- I can see that they're books. What were they doing in your briefcase?" 

Ricky sighed. "I was carrying them home. It's quite the collection, you see. Easier than trying to balance them all." 

"Why did you buy books in a bar?" 

"Who says I did?" 

"I saw you," C. C. said. "Well. I saw a different man enter with a case similar to this one- No. I saw him enter with this, and leave without it. Then you had it. Ergo, you bought it from him. In a bar." 

Ricky tapped a neat fingernail against the table. "More than one briefcase exists in this city," he said. 

Which was-- It was not the point. It was so far beyond the point. Tinsley's headache got worse. 

"Are the books to mock me?" he asked next. 

That pulled another grin from Ricky, who looked more guilty than ever as he shook his head 'no'. "I like detective stories. Crime thrillers. Nothing quite like it to get the blood pumping," he said, dropping his voice lower. _Nothing like the real thing_ , Tinsley heard. 

"And how many have you read?" The private investigator asked. 

Ricky laughed, bright, and moved as if to clap his hands. "I would say I'm at around twelve, now," he said. 

"Twelve. All recent?"

"Not all. I didn't find my favourite author until recently. But now I'm just  _devouring_ them. I'm sure you understand." 

"I can't say that I do," C. C. replied honestly. 

"They're just so fun," Ricky shrugged. 

"You think they're fun?" C. C. asked. His voice was a little strained. He felt like, somewhere, they'd switched from speaking about the books to talking about something entirely different. 

"You don't? Come on, Ceece, you're clearly not doing this job for the pay." Ricky sniffed and gestured at the PI's coat. "It's the thrill, isn't it? You're addicted." 

"Are you? Is that how you feel?"

"Oh, you know how it is. Once you get started on a good book, it's just so hard to put it down, don't you agree?" 

Tinsley realised he'd subconsciously begun to lean over the table, leaning as if to meet Ricky in the middle, and he startled back with an undignified sound. Ricky frowned. 

"Tell me... I want to know more about this briefcase," Tinsley said. Ricky rolled his eyes, the manic gleam gone, and refused to give more than one-syllable answers for the next hour. 

***

Around the fourteen hour mark, they slept. 

Or rather, C. C. did, stupidly falling asleep with his head pillowed on his arms, flat against the table. When he awoke, it was to the sight of Ricky with his feet up on the table, watching him with an unreadable expression on his face. "You snore, you know," he said. 

***

"Why those people?"

"What people?" 

"Don't play the fool. Those victims. Why them? Is it random? There has to be a connection." 

"I didn't peg you as someone who subscribed to the 'everything happens for a reason' theory." 

"What? I don't- Shut up. Tell me why you chose those victims." 

"I didn't choose anyone. I'm innocent." 

***

Bargaining was a dead end, too. 

"Just tell me. I won't share it with anyone else. Just between us, just for my peace of mind, Ricky. Just tell me you did it. Tell me you're the Sunset Killer." 

"Ceece, if it's peace of mind you're after, you're in the wrong job."

***

The day crawled through to night again. Twenty-four hours were up.

There wasn't enough evidence to charge Ricky with anything at all. 

C. C. stood at the edge of the interrogation room while one of the beat-cops undid his handcuffs, freeing him from the table. Ricky took his time standing. He popped his back, held a wrist up to the light as if to inspect it, and kept eye-contact with C. C. the entire time. He traced a fingertip around the slightest of red lines there, and hummed. C. C. could have sworn, as he watched Ricky's finger draw a straight line on his skin, that his eyes were focused on the taller man's neck. 

They both had to sign some papers before Ricky was free to go. C. C. looked down at their names beside one another - one in curved script, one in neat print - and felt a strange weight of inevitability settle over his shoulders. It was like he could still hear that damn clock ticking, though they had left it behind in the interrogation room. 

 _Tick tock, Tinsley_. God, he was losing his grip. The research folder tucked under one arm slipped slightly before he caught it. 

Ricky wasn't even paying attention. He had reclaimed his coat, hat, and briefcase, and he was dressing quietly a few feet away. He waved at the receptionist as he moved to leave, not even sparing C. C. a word. 

"You won't get away with it," C. C. called after him, unable to keep his mouth shut. His palms were sweaty. "Not forever."

Ricky paused a few steps from the entrance. He rolled his shoulders, and turned to look back at the private investigator. The beguiling, bemused face from the interrogation room was gone, and in it's place was that same honeyed smirk that flashed through Tinsley's mind whenever he woke up in a cold sweat.

"Get away with what?" Goldsworth asked, cocking his head to one side. And then, "forever?"

He didn't wait for an answer. He just cast one more sweeping look over the PI, and left the building. 

**Author's Note:**

> Look. Look. I just... love these two. I couldn't help myself.


End file.
